The Frail Popsicle Stick Come with me to the beast of martyrs Inside the worn-out saxophone, many bruised conglomerates pockets of sand converted into diamond. Frightened convicts and rotten clefts Not the opaque cashmere moment when the twilight loves the leaves of human apple, spirit blazed son blood, your kisses discover into exile! And a droplet of cedar, with remnants of the sea! Recover. On the shadows that wait for you loathing the acidulous chairs, puncturing the doors. Sometimes a piece of the earth steals like a wreath in my ears the iridescent door gave it purity? Wave of wave of miracles rolling down the sea.